Ducklings—Victoria Park—Yachtsmen—Cowes—Floating family—The
‘Zara’—Lifeboats—Wrecked—Mop—An odd story—The law of
anchors—Experiments—The Royal yacht.
Medina Dock is the place to see all sorts of ships and boats for steam,
sailing, or rowing, lifeboats, rafts, and models. The basin is full of
broken-backed men-of-war whose old black bones are being disjointed and
dragged asunder here to make strong knees again, just because they are
black and well seasoned. Alongside the quay we had seen the three
American yachts, which came across the Atlantic amid many English cheers
for the vessels of two hundred tons crossing from New York, while we
scarcely record the voyages of our own hundred-ton vessels that have
often sailed to Australia.
In Mr. White’s garden there are Chinese junks and catamarans afloat in a
pond, and even the walls around are not allowed to be quite of dry land,
being painted with sea soundings and charts of the neighbouring coasts.
This may indeed be called the Admiralty of the yacht fleet, and Cowes is
its Portsmouth.
“Nauta nascitur non fit,” which is in English, “British boys are
ducklings born to the water.”
Now many of these have affectionate parents not web-footed, and the
filial duty of a little duck to the motherly hen is a very difficult
question of conscience when a pond is near; but then there is no positive
need to boat, while there _is_ a positive command to obey. This ought to
solve the question with all brave loving boys, who are manly enough to
obey the woman dearest on earth to them.
A little vessel two feet long may be called a toy ship, but it is a toy
that can teach much to an Admiral, and I should not like to have as my
comrade on a voyage the man of forty who can pass the Serpentine without
a glance at the little ragged urchin there, who is half in the water
himself while he reaches with a twig his tiny lugger after its long
voyage across the lake among ducks, and row-boats, and billows two inches
high.
Victoria Park, again, has a feast of nauticalities now and then for boys
who love boats, when the Model Yacht Club sails its liliputian squadron
for a half-crown cup.
The competing yachts first lie on the green grass for inspection. They
are made in “off hours” by working men, who sail as well as build them.
Wife or a school-girl daughter has sewed the sails, and the paint on the
hull is gorgeous. Crowds of all classes and ages are at the
starting-post, and when the pistol fires the cheers begin. Each
favourite in the fleet has its admirers, who run alongside, and the
Secretary alone has a grave face, as of a man on important duty. Who can
say what sailors’ seedlings may be watered in that pond, and to grow up
in manhood afterwards as hearts of oak?
And if a boy is too young, or lazy, or clumsy-fingered to make a boat for
himself, let him go along Fleet Street till he comes to the spot where he
can turn his back upon St. Dunstan’s church. Depend upon it he will
cross over to the _Model Dockyard_ there, and after buttoning his jacket
over his watch-chain, and a good shove down to his pocket-handkerchief,
if he has one, let him wriggle in by elbow and knees till he gets a good
place among the crowd at the window.
Even when it is time to go home he will not have seen half the naval
stores here, or the little sailors—from Cork—all waiting to be engaged;
but if he buys the _Illustrated Handibook_ inside from the civil shopman,
to con at home, perhaps at his next visit he may be admitted up-stairs to
a delicious treat, where he can gloat over the more hidden fleet of the
future.
Some, perhaps many, people keep yachts who do not enjoy sailing. We have
sometimes seen a yacht-owner who could not steer his own dingey. There
are others whose chief anxiety when once on board is for their speedy
arrival at the next port. To have the best yacht of the year is no sign
of its owner being a good sailor. The horse that wins the Derby would
most likely not be first if he carried his owner, and a man may have a
good carriage who cannot himself “handle the ribbons.”
It is no discredit to anybody that he is not able to ride a race, or
steer a schooner, or drive a drag; but it is well to remember more than
we do whose is the skill that wins in each of these exercises.
At Cowes one perceives very soon that a good deal of _yachtomania_ is fed
upon the good meat and drink afloat, and balls and promenades ashore, and
the pomp and bustle of getting from one to the other, not to forget the
brass buttons which fasten more vulgar minds to some Clubs.
Leaving aside all these in peace, provided they play with the thing as
they have a right to do, and as openly as now, so that none can mistake
them, we have still to admire a splendid set of fellows, yes, and of
women too, who really love the sea. We know a hardy canoeist who said he
would not marry anybody unless she could “pull bow oar,” and it certainly
is an addition to the family hearth when the tender help-meet can “mind
her luff.”
In the regatta week the tide of a congregation coming out of the pretty
church at Cowes is thoroughly aquatic. Fine stalwart men with handsome
faces, girls with chignons as big as a topsail bunt, yacht skippers of
bronze hue and anxious eye, well fed sailors with cerulean Jerseys,
children with hat ribbons and neckties labelled with yacht names. There
were 150 yachts on the water here, and the Rob Roy anchored close to the
Hotel, from which the sight was magnificent at night, when each
mast-light was hung, and the whole made a brilliant crescent reflected in
calm sea, while excellent music played softly on shore, and at each
half-hour the bell of every vessel tolled the time, the Rob Roy adding
her note to the jingle by so many thumps on an iron pot.
Near the yawl was a strange little cutter of five tons, as remarkable for
the number of people on board it as mine was for having so few. There
was the grey-haired hearty papa, and when we had noticed him taking
observations with a sextant, we knew he was “a character.” Then there
was his active son, and a younger brother, and a sister in bright red,
and a sailor boy. They looked even more numerous, because they kept for
ever moving out of sight, and then appearing in new costume, under and
above the awning, which like a large umbrella, was spread on their boom.
It was a treat to lunch with this kind hale yachtsman, and to see the one
minute cabin full of mirrors, pictures, statuettes, crockery, and
furniture. To make room for the visitor two of the inhabitants ate their
share of a huge pie in the punt alongside.
Then, to rise at once to the largest yacht of them all, there was the
beautiful ‘Zara,’ a schooner of 315 tons, fitted out for a Mediterranean
cruise, but making her first voyage from Cowes to Southampton, convoyed
by the Rob Roy, and as her reefing topsails and her Flemish horse got
entangled aloft by new stiff ropes, she drifted against another fine
schooner; but with cool heads and smart hands on board of each of them,
the pretty craft were softly eased away from a too rough embrace, and no
damage was done.
About twenty of the yachts were steamers, and at least as many besides
had steam-launches, a new adjunct rapidly becoming popular, and which
soon will be almost a necessary for every yacht of 200 tons. All of
these that I saw were lifeboats, built on “Lamb and White’s” principle,
that is, with air chambers along the sides, so that they decline to
upset, and if they are filled by the sea, they are not only still
floating but steady also.
The Royal National Lifeboat Institution build boats with ballast below
and with air-chambers so disposed at the ends and in the bottom as to
cause the boat to right itself when it has been overturned, while Mr. S.
White’s boats are constructed so as rather to prevent a capsize than to
right the boat afterwards.
During an experimental trial in a heavy sea, one of these side-chamber
boats was intentionally overturned, and it then kept steadily floating
bottom upwards, so that the crew clambered up safely on the keel, where
the handles provided for the purpose enabled them to hold on. Of the
fourteen men, however, only thirteen could be counted, and so it was
found that “Jem” was missing; but when he was called, Jem answered from
the _inside_ of the boat, “All right!” “What! Are you inside?” “Yes,
I’m looking for my cap.” He was safe enough in the vacant space between
the water and the floor, upturned over him, and there was room for
several more of the crew inside.
The two rival systems then seem to represent (1) a boat which will
speedily right, of which the men, if upset, may float outside until she
rights, or may keep inside, and cling to the thwarts and trust to be soon
righted; and (2) a boat which will upset only under strongest pressure,
but the men can either stop inside, or if cast out can cling to the keel.
To decide between the merits of these lifeboats would require actual
experiment outside and inside of each by the judge, who ought to look at
all sides of the question; but my opinion is, at present, in favour of
the side-chamber plan, for ships’ boats, and of course for
steam-launches; while the evidence in favour of the other plan for pure
lifeboat service in rough water is convincing.
Whatever may be finally settled as to the best position of the air-cases
in lifeboats—and the best men in the world for these matters are engaged
in earnest upon the subject {206}—it certainly is prudent for all who
care not to be drowned, that the boat they sail in should be so built as
not to go down bodily when a mere hole is knocked in her, and this may be
insured by dividing her into water-tight compartments.
Some years ago I had a sharp lesson on this point. It was in Dublin Bay,
where I was sailing entirely alone in an iron cutter-yacht, very small,
yet far too large to be managed by me, then a boy. The throat parrell
suddenly broke, and the mainsail jammed at once, so that she would not
stay. Then I tried to wear ship, but the running sea poured in over the
counter at each plunge, and baling was impossible, for it ran fore and
aft. As the water got deeper inside she settled down, for she had no
compartments, and, being of iron, of course she must speedily sink. A
yacht had humanely come out, seeing my distress, and she rounded to and
dropped a boy on board me with a strong rope; but when the boy set foot
on my bows they plunged deep under water, and with a loud cry he hauled
himself back on board the other yacht.
The captain instantly tacked and came again, and cast the rope to me,
which I fastened securely to my mast, and then got safely aboard the
preserver’s vessel, while mine sunk down, but suspended still by the
rope, until we towed it into shallow water.
This sort of thing was fully provided against in the Rob Roy by the
water-tight compartments, three in number, besides the air-chambers, so
that if she was filled in any one, she could yet sail on, and if all
three compartments had been entirely full of water, she would still float
with her air-chambers, and with five hundredweight to spare. {208}
The buoyancy of the yawl was very remarkable. She easily carried twenty
men, and in the same space one could accommodate five ladies of
reasonable circumference.
A boat’s mop is, of course, well known to be always fair spoil to him who
can take it, and whatever other article the yachtsman leaves loose on an
unguarded deck, he never omits to hide or lock up the mop, for a mop is
winged like an umbrella, it strays, but seldom returns. The usual
protection of mops is their extreme badness, and it is on this account,
no doubt, that you never can find a good mop to buy. The Rob Roy’s mop
was the only bad article on board, and I left it out loose in perfect
confidence. Often and often it had evidently been turned over, but on
examination it was found supremely bad, worse than the thief’s own mop,
and not worth stealing. At last, however, and in Cowes, too, the focus
of yachting, if not of honesty, my mop was stolen. The man who took it
is to be pitied, for, clearly, before he coveted a bad mop, he must have
been long enduring a worse one.
Nor is the property in boats’ anchors quite free from the legal
subtleties which allow but a dim sort of ownership in things that are
attached to the soil.
When, indeed, your boat is at one end of the cable, you will scarcely
fear that the anchor should be stolen from the other end. But when
necessity or convenience causes you to slip anchor and sail away, you
must recollect that though the anchor is the emblem of hope, it does not
warrant any _expectation_ that on returning you will find the anchor
acknowledged to be yours. It has now passed into the category of “found
anchors,” and it is not yet decided how the rights to these are best
determined. However, I may here mention one mode of settling the matter.
A gentleman we shall call N., sailing from a port on the Thames, had to
slip his anchor, and he said to the lad ashore—“You see I am leaving my
anchor here, and be good enough to tell your father to get it when the
tide falls, and to carry it to where my yacht is, and when I return here
to-morrow I will give him half-a-crown.”
After his sailing was over, N. came back and said to the father, “Well,
have you got my anchor?” “I have found an anchor,” he answered. “Yes,
that is mine, and I told your son I would give you half-a-crown if you
brought it here.” “I have found an anchor, and I’ll not give it up under
five shillings,” said the man; and their argument and remonstrance
gradually enveloped the subject in a hazy abstruseness, while the usual
knot of idlers listened all round. At length N. said, “Come, now, we
really must settle this matter. I’ll _fight you_ as to whether I am to
pay five shillings or nothing for the anchor,” and he took off his coat
and waistcoat, so it was plain he was in earnest. The other man stripped
too, a ring was formed, and after N., worsted at first, had well thrashed
his opponent, the latter gave up the anchor. Here, perhaps, we might
think the case had ended, but N. had still a point to be settled, saying
to the man, “Your bargain was not only to give up the anchor, but to
_bring it here_;” and as the fellow refused to do this, the valiant N.
cut the second discussion short by saying, “Well, then, I’ll fight you
again as to who shall carry it up,” and it need scarcely be said that the
anchor was not carried up by N.
Is there any other country but England where two men can pummel each
other in hard earnest, and yet with less passion at the time, and less
grudge afterwards than often exists for years between two combatants who
battle with their tongues, or even fight with their pens and post-stamps?
As anchors are important parts of one’s equipment, I had begun early to
experiment at once with mine, and the small one had been tried once as a
kedge. With the first heave it broke off short; the stock had snapped in
the place which ought to be the strongest, but which is really made the
weakest, by the present faulty construction of anchor-stocks. The _memo_
in my log-book was, “Invent a proper anchor;” and even at Cowes I could
not find any plan that met this need. {211}
Before the end of my voyage, a score of minutiæ as well as things of some
importance were marked as lines for great improvement, when a
nautico-mechanical brain shall be brought to bear upon them. The mental
consideration of such points afforded varied subjects for many weeks’
thought. Indeed _all_ the fittings of a sailing-boat seem open to much
improvement. Meanwhile we have laid down the large Trotman as moorings
in the Medina, while we range about the bays of the island with the
smaller anchor duly repaired.
Of course the dingey had its Sunday voyage at Cowes, and was everywhere
received with kindness. It went to the Royal Yacht here, as it had done
to the Emperor’s yacht at St. Cloud, and the sailors were grateful for
books to read, for they have plenty of time on Sundays. When I went
afterwards with my canoe to the Nile, my next neighbour at the hotel
dinner in Port Said was the owner of an English yacht, who gratefully
expressed his thanks for books given to his crew at Cowes.
It did not appear to be the fashion at Cowes to work the crews for
pleasure sailing seven days a week; indeed, we saw only one yacht sail in
on Sunday, and she was arriving after a night’s voyage.